Chapter 1: Girl, You Better Work

In six minutes I'll take Shadow Matter's satellite stage for the first time. I've worked here for a month and a half and, finally, I've got my chance. Dancers make more than casual hostesses and I need more credits if I ever want off the Lower Wards.

My clammy hands make difficult work of the illuso-weave outfit assigned to me. When it's on I still feel naked. Slick material clings to me like a membranous second skin. The costume defaults to metallic red. Asari look fantastic in red. Warm, vibrant colors pop against their blue skin. I'm not an asari and, on me, red is garish. Using the adaptive interface next to this primp station's mirror, I transform my attire.

"Three minutes, Neve," Yashia calls from the staging area.

My heart pounds a rapid backbeat. Who needs Shadow Matter's sound system? The rhythm of my over-clocked body already has me sliding from foot to foot. I don't need Hallex to peak me out. All I need is a stage.

Trembling fingers trip over the last of the interface settings. My costume shifts from red to black. Black suits my pale skin and dark hair and my Event Horizon sheath-boots. Yashia turned me on to the Illium brand. Once my legs are shrink wrapped in the thigh high boots, I'm ready to warm up.

Gripping the top of my primp station's chair, I dip into demi plié when someone yanks me to the right.

"Girl, would you get out here!" Azure fingers bracelet my wrist. Yashia hauls me into the shadowy staging area. Light from the greenroom we've left gleams off the bronze illuso-weave that films her body. "Don't make me sorry I called in favors for you."

Bodies crowd the darkened staging area. Feminine voices protest as Shia and I shove through. Powder and perfume and sweat scents the throng of waiting dancers. A group number follows mine. Flashy costumes and choreography in case I blow my debut. Sharp click-click-clicking spikes over the dancers' murmuring. Someone's chopping a Hallex line. Snorting Hallex heightens the drug's effects. It's also the easiest way to OD. I try twisting out of Shia's grasp. The asari's fingertips dig into my skin.

"Shia, someone's snorting—"

I lose my words when Shia pulls me close. Front to front, our bodies brush. Her hands clasp my cheeks.

"Stop looking for a reason to screw this up. My ass is on the line here too. My reputation. Whoever's lining Hallex can handle herself. And if not, that's one less girl between you and the limelight."

Shia kisses me hard and quick and leaves my mouth sticky with honey-gloss. Pivoting me towards the stage entrance, she slaps her hands on my shoulders and shoves. I'm onstage just as the emcee completes my intro.

"—the mesmerizing Persephone!"

Light blinds me. My arm goes up, shields my eyes. This is not part of my routine, but the audience doesn't know that yet. Music swells. My other arm comes up and I raise them both into a graceful variant of fifth position. I move.

The Shadow Cabaret is a wash of violet and blue light. I'm suspended high above the floor. On the satellite stage I have a bird's eye view of this half of the club. Eyes sparkle under the roving spots. Alien eyes, human eyes, all eyes gaze at me. A human might recognize the music I've selected, but with all the colonies you never know who's got a handle on old Earth culture. I dance to a synth-scratch bastarzion of Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. This feed sounds like delicate evil and it fuels my performance.

The repetitive flare of an FXed omni-tool distracts me. I don't go off step, but the eastern segment of the cabaret commands my attention. That's the point of an FXed omni-tool. People who get all those customized light effects and sounds want everyone to know when they're dropping a load of credits. The humans around the large table at the east end are dropping like meteorites. I bet Sarc is pleased. My boss loves human high rollers, even loud obnoxious ones like the group making obscene finger-and-tongue gestures at me.

I finish my number spot on and the stage goes black. The crowd claps, whistles, cheers, and there's no time to enjoy it. Asari butt against me as I scoot offstage. Shia passes and pummels my arm.

"Better than a Creeper fugue," she says.

Another asari, I think her name's Celera, hangs on Shia's arm.

"How'm I supposed to dance when my nose is on fire?"

Backstage welcomes me as the group number starts. I hug myself. Sarc Pozt has to give me a permanent dancer position.

He has to.

My boss meets me at the bottom of the stairs to the satellite stage. I know it's uncharitable, but in his pressure suit, Sarc Pozt looks like a squat panda-elephant. Susurrations from his suit garble whatever he says to me. When I ask the volus to repeat himself, his suit wheezes.

"Get out on the floor, Earth-clan. There are others," shush-hiss goes his suit, "other Earth-clan disrupting my clients. Take care of them."

I fold my arms. "Do I need Zargt?"

"No." Shush-hiss. "I do not want them bounced. I want them settled down. Spending credits." Shush-hiss. "Calm."

"Right. What about my number?"

"Yes, yes, lovely, I'm sure, Earth-clan. Take care of this and you'll dance more. No more hostessing."

"On it, boss." I salute him like an Alliance officer and head out to the floor. Sarc calls after me.

"Quickly, Earth-clan. Dalessia Kella is here. She must leave Shadow Matter wishing to return."

Dalessia Kella, Dalessia Kella. Where have I heard that name? Vids? The extranet? Shia prattle? She must be a big deal if Sarc's taking care of her himself.

The Shadow Cabaret is packed. Every table's occupied and every seat at the bar filled. Conversations tangle in an undulating hum. Subdued music plays over the crowd's collective voice. Holographic projections, featured dancers sculpted of neon light, tease the stage overhead. Most are asari, but a couple are human. One day my holographic ghost will tempt clients too. Tonight, I'm back in hostess gear.

All casual hostesses wear the same thing. Our skin tight sheath dresses cover us from neck to toe. Slits in our skirts reach from ankle to thigh. Casual hostesses, like me, wear black. Resident hostesses wear white. Resident hostesses only work the Shadow Lounge. Casual hostesses cater to clients in the lounge and the cabaret. We go where we're needed. I'm needed in the Shadow Cabaret's east end.

I groan. The Earth-clan steaming Sarc in his ammonia are the same FXed omni-tool jackasses I spotted from the stage. Rolling back my shoulders, I steel myself for this encounter. They won't recognize me in my hostess outfit.

"The asari goddess of sluts has blessed our table." The leader of this group has the non-accent of a colonist. Strobing color dances over the orange glow of his FXed omni-tool. I have to shut him up. I don't know exactly why Dalessia Kella is a big deal, but I know she's asari. If she overhears this idiot's crap about asari slut goddesses Shadow Matter's rep will go down in flames along with my budding career.

"How about a table dance, Persephone?"

How did I get the one lucid drunk on the Citadel?

Leader cracks his half empty tumbler on the glossy table. His buddies follow suit. Four humans and one salarian pound their glasses on the table like a giant tribal drum. Amber colored liquor splashes the hematite surface. Most ignore the racket. Then the rowdy group starts chanting.

"Ta-ble dance! Ta-ble dance!"

A turian a few tables over stares. Pin pricks of light glitter in his shadowed eye sockets. I squint at him and his head swivels in the opposite direction, skull crest pointing at me. His colony markings look familiar.

"Gentlemen," I say with my eyes on the possibly familiar turian. "This isn't Chora's Den."

"No shit." One of the others pipes up. They've stopped shouting and pounding. "We'd be there right now if some asshole spectre hadn't shot the place up. It's closed for the next month."

That's news. I hadn't heard Chora's Den closed down.

Hands capture my hips and bring me into Leader's lap. I feel him through his trousers.

"So, Persephone," he whispers in my ear, breath clouded with Silver Star bourbon. "How about a lap dance?"

I wrench away. Leader brings me back down. The turian stands.

"Come on, Persephone. Dance for me."

Another hand lands on my shoulder.

"No." The well dressed asari stares down the entire drunken pack. "This one's dancing for me."